


Waterfall

by jaegermighty



Category: The Parent Trap (1998)
Genre: Angst, Divorce, F/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 11:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8977489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaegermighty/pseuds/jaegermighty
Summary: It's like she doesn't wake up until she's back at her father's house, blinking up at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom and thinking, my God, that chandelier is ugly.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kindness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kindness/gifts).



It's like she doesn't wake up until she's back at her father's house, blinking up at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom and thinking, _my God, that chandelier is ugly._

It is in fact exquisitely ugly, with big, fake crystals hanging from garish embellishments and a thick layer of dust on the edge of the light fixture, which is something Mum never would have stood for - she'd have climbed up on a chair and cleaned it herself before she would've let a guest see it - but then again, Mum never would have chosen a chandelier like that in the first place. Elizabeth lays in bed and stares at it and thinks about light fixtures and maid services and Chessy's homemade vegetarian chili, which she always put extra blackeyed peas in whenever Elizabeth was eating it, and feels the weight of every mile she's just traveled pressing down on her chest, down into the bed, through her chest, straight into her bones.

She tugs one shoe off with the opposite foot and flings it at the chandelier. It grazes one of the crystals and lands with a thump on the floor, and Liz stares at her sock for awhile. It's one of Nick's. She was always putting his on by mistake, because they bought the same brand, and she never realized until after she'd already put them on and by then she couldn't be bothered, and now they're done and she didn't take anything with her but her clothes and her sketchbook and a single pair of his socks, and she hates flying and she hates London and she hates that bloody chandelier and everything is terrible, just terrible.

She kicks her other shoe off, and manages to miss the light completely this time, although it does bounce off the dresser rather satisfyingly. Her other sock doesn't match; it's one of hers, a bright blue one. So she doesn't even have a complete pair. Just one sock. A single, black, athletic men's sock. That's it.

Liz tucks her feet beneath the covers and finally, finally, starts to cry.

 

 

 

 

Nick was what Mum would've called a "man's man," which was incredibly attractive to Liz on good days, and incredibly, annoyingly, even _more_ attractive on bad days. He chopped wood and wore big canvas boots that always, always had mud on them, no matter how many times Liz hosed them off in the bathtub. He grilled things, he fixed things, he watched sports and drank beer and called Liz "baby" in a slow, honeyed drawl that made her knees feel like hot rubber. He had big, big hands, with calluses, cuts and scrapes from mysterious outdoorsy activities, a thick mat of hair on his chest, and he always smelled like wet grass somehow, even in the winter. Rolling around in their bed was like making love in a forest, it seemed like. Liz consequently developed a rather Pavlovian response to trees that makes her father's "calming walks" in Hyde Park a rather awkward prospect now.

That was the thing that never went wrong, and isn't that always the case? How cliche. Even when they were fighting, they were still doing it in bed, on their way to bed, right after getting out of bed. That never stopped, not even when it got dire, when Liz could feel the end coming like an oncoming freight train. God, the way he made her feel was like nothing else in the world - she'd never _wanted_ anything that way before - the kind of itching, pulsing want that she'd never thought actually existed. Full on bodice-ripping, romance novel, Celine Dion song want. The kind of want that makes you believe in things, change things, give up things you'd never thought you'd let go of. Cold shower want. Scream until your voice goes hoarse want. Drink a bottle of vodka and cry your eyes out at the airport want.

Nick said, _I want to do everything with you, I want to do anything. Everything you fantasize about, everything I fantasize about, all of it. Let's just do all of it. Let's do it all until we can't walk and then let's make some more stuff up and do that, too. I want you to tell me what you want, I want you to just - shit,_ talk _to me. Just talk to me, Liz. Tell me what's wrong. Just tell me._

God, how could they resist? How could they have gone anywhere else, the way it swept them along? They couldn't have escaped it, even if they'd wanted to try. It couldn't have ended any other way. Waves hit the shore eventually, always, even when they're big and powerful and inevitable. The only difference is, they just - hit harder.

 

 

 

 

Her father is exceedingly careful with her, which offends what's left of Elizabeth's sensibilities, so she goes out and gets herself a job at a dress shop in Islington. She spends seven hours five days a week selling horrid, used clothes to uni students and every Friday night she goes to Martin's pub and gets wasted.

"Shall I call you a taxi? You'll never make the Tube," he'll say, refilling her glass at eleven fifty-something, every time, like clockwork. "Or are you not done soaking in your misery yet?"

"Another hour or two should do it," Elizabeth says, miserably.

"Very well," Martin replies, dodging around behind the bar like a ballroom dancer. The other bartenders don't know what to do with him, Liz can tell - he's like a transplant from either a Monty Python episode or an American parody of a Monty Python episode, depending on who you ask. Even when they were young he still had this air of ironic gallantry, like the rebel love child of Basil Fawlty and Joe Strummer. It was effortlessly charming, and incredibly, endearingly funny. "If you could soak in the misery at the other end of the bar, that would be very helpful, thank you. I need to start sweeping."

Liz hooks her purse on one ankle and slides, dragging her barstool with some energetic bum-flexing. Martin looks vaguely impressed.

"Thank you, darling," he says, and grabs his broom.

Liz should've married him instead. "I should've married you instead."

Martin throws her an appalled look. "You're not my type." He starts sweeping, efficient and brisk, but with a lopsided smirk on his face like he's sort of making fun of the whole ordeal at the same time. "No offense."

"No, of course not." They'd gone to school together, she and Martin. They'd never been exactly _close_ , but they'd gotten pissed together plenty of times. Enough for Liz to be well aware of what his type actually is. "Forgive me Martin, I'm just extremely drunk and miserable. You should kick me out. Everyone else has gone, after all."

"I would never," Martin says loyally. "I like you more than I like them."

"But if we had gotten married," Liz says, pausing mid-syllable for a gulp of Chardonnay, "I wouldn't be here at all. I'd be...serving tea cakes in a respectable flat in Westminster. In loafers. And one of those boxy hats like they wear on Are You Being Served."

"We live in Westminster?" Martin sounds impressed. "Quite well off, aren't we?"

"Dad helped us out. And you - you made it big with your band. Royalties, you know."

"Shut it," Martin says, pointing angrily at her with his broom. "You swore you'd never mention that ever again!"

"I did no such thing!" Liz cries. She won't tell him about the pictures. "You should be proud of your youth, Martin. You were quite the keyboard player. I was utterly swept away."

"Oh, you were not." Martin rolls his eyes and abandons his broom, folding his gangly frame onto the barstool next door to hers. Reaching over mid-drink, he tips her wine glass farther, like he's feeding a baby bird. "Come now, finish that up. There's a good girl."

Liz only barely manages not to choke. It's a dirty trick that he plays on her constantly, and she'd resent it if she were sober. "Pah. You gave me the rotten stuff again."

"The good Chardonnay is only good when you can actually taste it," Martin says, and reaches over the bar to put the dirty glass away with casual ease. He really is a giant, she thinks muzzily, leaning heavily against the notched wood. "Oh, I hate to see you like this, darling. It's not all bad, is it?"

"Everything's bad," Liz mumbles. The divorce papers had come the week before, and the week before that - the rest of her things. Efficiently packed, organized, labeled. Nick had probably paid someone to do it. "Everything's so...so bad, Martin. Bad...everywhere."

Martin leans in and wraps one of his hands around her shoulder, squeezing in friendly comfort. Liz almost startles at it; it feels like so long since a man has touched her. Sometimes she swears she can still feel Nick next to her in bed, his hands just inches away from the cool sweat on her skin. "It'll get better. I swear it will."

Liz tries desperately to believe him. "Yes. Yes it will."

"I could have him killed, if you wanted."

"Could you really? That'd be terribly convenient."

"Oh yes. Might take a few weeks to arrange it, but it's easy enough. Might be expensive, though."

"Well." Liz waves her hand in the air vaguely. "Money's money. Murder is forever."

Martin nods sagely. His hand is still on her shoulder, and Liz is horribly embarrassed to realize that she's rather enjoying it, that she maybe doesn't want him to stop. She'd never _sleep_ with Martin, of course, but - the idea of it is kind of nice. Oh _God_ , how utterly embarrassing.

"You should call that bloke at Harrod's," Martin says, pulling his hand away finally. Liz is guiltily disappointed. "The one your mother knew. Send him some of your designs."

"Oh, I don't have anything worth sending right now. I haven't come up with anything good since I got back."

"Well you won't get any inspiration working at a bloody thrift store."

He's right, Liz knows he's right. Martin is always right, it's infuriating. "Yes, well."

Martin pats her shoulder again. "It _will_ get better," he says gently. "There is no such thing as pain that lasts forever - you can get over anything, you know."

"Martin, you are you so insufferably British sometimes that it drives me absolutely crazy," Liz says.

"Buck up, love," Martin replies, in a stiff Cockney. "More fish in the sea, 'n all that."

"Ugh," says Liz.

 

 

 

 

Liz starts designing again, which is mildly helpful. Her boss at the dress shop (Belinda, _exactly_ three years younger than her, same birthday - what an absolutely hilarious running joke nobody can get enough of! Really, Liz is just hysterical about it) lets her start doing alterations for some of their long-standing customers, and before long Liz has a short but respectable client list. If she can get away with it, she'll start going around the shop altogether. She wouldn't mind being a plain old seamstress for a bit, while she decides what her next move is. It's actually quite charming, in a very...English sort of way.

In April, she's going to fly again, to New York City for four days. Nick has deigned to meet her halfway to sign the papers. He can't move on the vineyard property until the divorce is final. He has a rather large business loan, and farming equipment. He's incorporated. He has investors.

Liz has anxiety, and a workroom full of ugly dresses. They're for a group of fussy old ladies who are planning some sort of charity bingo event to raise money for a church in Clapham, and Liz can't for the life of her find fabric that matches their exact shade of drab, olive green. Her father has offered to "make some calls," like some sort of twee mafia don, and Liz imagines bolts of silk and cotton falling off of mysterious trucks with some amusement; if she'd asked for lace, perhaps they'd have to pull out the corkscrews.

Martin has moved on from the pub to a waitstaff job for fancy parties, and it's just not quite the same without him, so Liz has cut back on her wine consumption for the moment. Probably this is healthy, but she's started having wet dreams again - terribly inconvenient.

Nobody talks about how boring it is in the middle, how you get up every day to face your new, depressing life and feel sick to death of yourself, how you cry at night more because it's a habit than because it just hurts that much. What a cliche it is, how mundane and normal, how utterly _common_ this whole ordeal is, especially for a woman who has always prided herself on being exceptional. Whirlwind romances don't always settle into happy endings - more often than not, in fact, they blow out the same way they blew in. Every sad, overdone Lifetime movie began with one of those magical nights, on a yacht or a beautiful hotel or a ski resort on the side of a mountain - when you're in it, you don't notice. When you're in it, you can't see past it.

They'd wanted _children._ For God's sake, Liz can't imagine what they'd been thinking. Children! What if she'd been pregnant? What if there'd been _custody_ to work out? What an unbelievable nightmare. The petty business of divorce is bad enough without a couple helpless, bald creatures in the mix as well. Liz always told herself she'd wait until she was older to do that, anyway. Thirty, at least - if not older. She'd be one of those old, classy, grey-hair mums, who start celebrate their early retirement with a baby or two.

Nick wanted them right away. "I was adopted, you know," he told her once, over a bottle of red, one of their first nights in their first home. "Technically speaking. My mom was still in high school when she got pregnant with me, and my grandparents did that thing, you know, where they send you away and then tell everyone the baby was theirs - "

"My God," Liz had said, laughing, "I didn't know people actually did that."

"Well, my family did." Nick had seemed sort of sad, but also sort of bemused, the way he always seemed when speaking of his parents. Grandparents, technically speaking. "She died not too long after I was born - car accident. I never knew until my folks were gone, too - I was all grown up, by then. I found some old letters and paperwork and stuff, when I was cleaning out their apartment."

"Oh, Nick. I'm so sorry."

"Nothin' to be sorry about. Just the way it went." Nick shrugged. "They loved me, and I loved them. And my mother loved me, too. It's not so complicated, at the end of the day."

At the time, this philosophy on life had seemed incredibly profound. Now, it makes Liz want to start drinking again. "Would you want to adopt, then?"

"Maybe. I dunno - I haven't really thought about it. I guess I figured I'd do it all the old fashioned way, the way everyone else does it." Nick grinned at her, easy and charming. "But I guess you and I aren't exactly the traditional type of couple, huh?"

"Ha," Liz said.

 

 

 

 

Nick wanted to make wine. Nick loved wine. Nick adored wine. Nick would've married wine if it were legal, probably. Liz distinctly remembers screeching something to that effect at the back of his head once or twice.

It was the vineyard that started the fighting - the real fighting, anyway, because of course, they'd always fought. Fighting and foreplay - it all got so blurry between them.

If Liz had thought harder about it, if she hadn't been so furious at the way Nick would just _decide_ things on his own and then come home and just _announce_ it, like that was just the way it was and well, you better deal with it Lizzie - she would've empathized more, she would've been more supportive. That's what you're meant to do, isn't it, in marriage? Sacrifice something to help them move forward. Hold out your hands and give them a boost to make it over the fence.

The problem was, neither of them thought they should be the one to kneel down first, and the other problem was that they'd been living in America, which was a much friendlier place to Nick's dreams than it was to Elizabeth's. The problem was that Nick was a man, raised in a fairly conservative Midwestern household, the problem was that he tried, but he still said things off hand sometimes and touched her a certain way in public and made assumptions and got so _surprised_ when Liz chafed beneath all that unfair, undeserved weight. The problem was that you couldn't plan for children and two ambitious careers at the same time. The problem was they were just too damn angry to apologize and too self-righteous to think twice.

How can you hate somebody so much, with every ounce of ugly, monstrous fire that your heart is capable of, and still miss them so badly you can't sleep? How does Liz roll over in bed and still expect him to be next to her even as she composes angry letters to her divorce lawyer in her head? How do you run so far you forget where you're going? How do you heal from the absence of something you don't want to let go of?

That's _her_ problem now, she supposes. They're all her problems now.

 

 

 

 

It seems silly and so, so selfish not to consider the twins at all, but Liz hasn't, really. She assumes they're still with Chessy - Liz hopes they're doing alright. She hopes Nick's taking care of them - financially speaking, that is. It's what they'd promised her, after all, and just because Liz and Nick couldn't keep it together doesn't mean the girls should suffer.

Chessy had helped Liz pack, after Nick had stormed out, that day. She'd been about seven months along, and could barely move, but she'd still tried to convince Liz to let her roll her socks and sort out her makeup. Ridiculous. Liz had given her some t-shirts to fold and confined her to the couch.

Chessy was always like that - not because she was particularly selfless, but because she was ruthlessly pragmatic, in a way that often came off as self-sacrifice to those who weren't paying close attention. The whole arrangement was her idea, in that fashion. She'd shown up at the house one evening, her face pale and expressionless, and laid it out for them over cups of flavorless, decaf tea.

"I want to be there for them," was her only stipulation. "Maybe tell them who I am, but only when they're grown. Like _grown_ grown, you know? But I want to do something for them somehow. Help them. Just not - not as their mother. But I can't do that with a regular adoption, okay? So let's just do this - a different way."

"Sweetheart," Liz had said helplessly, not knowing where to take it next. Nick had been pacing between them - long, loping steps from the table to the counter and then back again, over and over, like a restless lion. "I - I don't...I mean of course it's your decision, but are you sure you can…"

"I can handle it," Chessy said confidently, her eyes dry. Liz couldn't help but believe her.

She hadn't told them anything about a father, and neither of them had asked. On the paperwork, Chessy wrote down "deceased." It was good enough for all of them.

Annie and Hallie, those had been the names they'd picked out. Annie for Nick's mother, Hallie for Chessy - her middle name. Chessy had tried to convince Liz to pick something else, her own mother's name or something, but for God's sake, her mother's name had been Carlotta. There's a limit to how British one can be.

Liz wonders if the birth went alright. She wonders if they have Chessy's coloring, her chin, her nose, her eyes. She wonders - she _thinks_ that Chessy probably took them back home to Montana, to have her sister's family raise them. That'd been her plan, before Liz had told her that she and Nick had been trying, after all.

It'd been a good plan. They'd take care of them. Her sister was an elementary school teacher, Liz recalls - probably an excellent mother. One of those ladies who keep activity schedules on the fridge and make homemade snacks and things. Not the kind of mother Liz would've been. Not like - they'd make sure -

Anyway.

 

 

 

 

A few things, in no particular order:

1\. He's cut his hair. It's terribly short, and it makes his face look fat.

2\. There's a serious-looking bandage on his right hand, wrapped around his palm. He keeps it lying flat on the table, and every so often she sees him flex his fingers and wince. Is it a cut or a burn? Probably a cut. Did he get stitches? Liz hopes he didn't go to that doctor his mother recommended, she was just terrible. She once refused to prescribe Liz antibiotics for the flu, because she didn't believe Liz was sick enough. Honestly, who does that?

3\. His lawyer is a woman. Liz didn't catch her name, and she doesn't particularly want to. She's very beautiful, her pantsuit is terribly ugly, and Liz hates her.

4\. His shoulders are a bit broader. Do shoulders get broader? Maybe she's imagining things. Maybe she's romanticized his shoulders so much that they seem much more overwhelming in person. Do shoulders grow into adulthood? Well - muscles do, if you work out, Liz knows that. Is he working out more? Why would he need to work out at all, with all the work he already does on a day-to-day basis? Lifting and chopping things isn't enough anymore, now he has to benchpress things too? Did he work out for her, because he knew she was going to see him? Her...appreciation for his physique was certainly never a _secret._ Is he trying to rub it in her face? No - that's ridiculous. Honestly, she's going to drive herself mad before this wretched day is over, especially if he keeps looking at the side of her face like that, like he can't bring himself to look her in the eye like a _real man_ would, like he's _scared_ or _angry,_ like he has _any right at all_ to play the injured party when _he's_ the one who -

5\. Her lawyer cuts her off at four cups of coffee.

6\. At lunch, he leaves on his own, while his lawyer - good Lord, her shoes are even uglier than the suit - sets herself up right there at the conference table with a salad. Liz shares a sandwich with one of the secretaries and deliberately does not watch the front door for Nick's return. Because that would be pathetic.

7\. The actual moment of signing is much less dramatic than Liz had imagined it - for one thing, it's not just one signature as much as it is a series of them, with initials involved too, and carbon copies. Liz's hand cramps up around the twelfth page.

8\. Nick has special permission to use a stamp, on account of his hand. Liz resents this fiercely.

9\. As divorces go, theirs had been fairly amicable, since they'd never properly merged their assets. What was his before is his now, what was hers is still hers, et cetera. That'd been something they'd been meaning to get around to - joint bank accounts. Funny how they'd never made it a priority. So very, very funny. Hysterical, really. So funny that Liz could just cry.

10\. They don't talk. Not even once.

 

 

 

 

Back at the hotel, she stares at the phone for a while, thinking about all the people she couldn't possibly call. Then she orders room service and a Bruce Willis pay-per-view movie. She slides her suitcase over in front of the minibar, just to be safe.

Her flight's not until late afternoon tomorrow, and she thinks about her cab ride to the airport, how much it's going to cost (a lot), the flight (horrible, made only marginally less so by the amount of drugs she'll be taking), what she's going to say at customs (purpose of my visit? Oh, just had to pop back over to get a divorce. No big deal). She eats a gigantic hamburger with bacon and pickles and that yellow cheese Americans like so much, and drinks two cans of Dr. Pepper. She thinks about calling her father, and decides that'd be a little too pathetic. She tries to go to bed around seven, but she can't sleep.

What a strange feeling, to know so intimately the life that you could have had. To have paperwork signifying its end, to know the names of your almost-children and the type of car you would've had and the job you would've worked. In an alternate universe, five years in, Mrs. Liz Parker is dropping her girls off at school before heading into work at some minor corporate office of a mid sized department store, where she manages accounts and clients and still hopes to break into design someday. She sketches at night and makes Halloween costumes and party dresses for the girls, and the winery has just produced its first crop, and Nick comes home late most nights, and Liz has a few friends in town but not that many, and Annie and Hallie look everything like each other and nothing like Liz.

She hates it, hates it, hates it. But she wants it. She still wants it.

Twice, she picks up the phone, thinking that she'd heard it ring. It didn't, and doesn't. She falls asleep at midnight, with the television still on.

 

 

 

 

Back home, it rains as she walks up the steps to her father's door. Dirty, city rain. The air smells like rubbish - the neighbors have left it out on the street again. She should really talk to someone about that.

Her father's in Scotland, on a lecture tour. Martin's thinking of moving out of the city - too expensive. She gets a commission from one of the Clapham ladies, to do a fitting for her niece's wedding dress. Liz spends three hours with the girl, chatting, and ends up redoing the train and making her a veil, too.

She sketches at night. Makes party dresses for Belinda's three, adorable little cousins. Sends her designs to the bloke at Harrod's. He likes them - he wants to meet her for coffee.

Four months after New York, she gets a phone call. The line hums and crackles before Liz even says hello, and for a breathless, terrifying minute, she thinks it's Nick.

It isn't. "Lizzie," says Chessy. "Is that you? Can you hear me? Shit, did the call not - "

"Chessy!" Liz clutches the phone tight against her face. "I'm here, I'm here!"

"Hey," Chessy says warmly, a voice from another life. Liz sits down hard in her father's desk chair, making it rock back on its back two legs with the force. "Thank God. I'm using this calling card thing, and it took me twenty minutes just to figure out how to dial your number. I got it wrong the first time, I think I got some kind of restaurant or something."

Liz laughs into her hand, unexpected tears prickling at her eyes. "My God, this must be costing you a fortune!"

"Not that much. Nick gave me the card, and it's got a good rate on it."

Liz breathes through the sting. "Oh, I'm glad. It's so good to hear your voice, Chessy, really."

"It's good to hear yours, too," Chessy replies. Liz smiles mindlessly up at the ceiling, her heart near to overflowing. "How are you? I'm so sorry I haven't called before now."

"Oh, no," Liz says, "it's - it's fine, honestly, I just - "

"No, really. I'm sorry," Chessy says, insistently. "I wanted to catch you when you were in the country, but Nick didn't tell me about that until after he'd already gotten back, and...well, anyway. Tell me how you are - don't leave anything out. I'm not paying for this, remember?"

Liz takes a deep breath. "I'm quite well, you know," she says. "Getting some momentum with my designs. I work at a dress shop, but I do a good chunk of work on the side - I think it's really turning into something. And Father's doing wonderfully - off on the tour for the new book. So everything's very good, we're all...quite good. London is...good," Liz says, trailing off with a wince.

"Well...good," Chessy says dryly, not letting her get away with it. One of the reasons she's always quite liked Chessy.

Liz shakes her head at herself. "Yes, well," she says, with a sheepish laugh. "What about you? How are - " she nearly chokes for a second, a chunk of something bitterly sad lodging in her throat. "How are the girls?"

"Well, that's what I'm calling about," Chessy says matter of factly. "Hallie's wonderful, of course, no problems there. Giving everyone grey hair already. Nick's doing alright with her, I hear, but when _isn't_ he alright, you know?" Liz freezes, every muscle in her body turning instantly to stone. "It's Annie I'm calling about, actually. She's fine, she's great, but Rebecca's pregnant again, and - " Chessy's voice is swept away on a wave of static, and Liz holds her breath until it passes, clutching the phone so tightly her knuckles start to ache. " - like her. But...what can I do, you know? It is what it is. Hey...Lizzie? You still there?"

"Yes," Liz croaks. "Yes, I'm...sorry, you were breaking up a bit, there. Did you say - " Liz tries to take another deep, calming breath, but her voice gets away from her before she can manage it. " _Nick adopted Hallie?!_ "

"Well, yeah," Chessy says. A fraught pause. "I thought you knew."

"No." Liz laughs, a little hysterically. "No, I didn't - _only_ Hallie?! Bloody hell!"

"He didn't think he could handle both of them on his own," Chessy says. She sounds apologetic now, and a little awkward, the way she always was whenever Liz would get particularly emotional. She was never a very "touchy-feely-soppy" sort of person, as she used to put it. "I was okay with it. Rebecca took Annie. I send both of them money, and they send me updates and stuff, you know."

"My God," Liz says numbly, bringing her shaking hand to her face. "My God."

"But Rebecca's pregnant now," Chessy continues, rushing to get the words out, like she thinks Liz might be about to hang up. "And she doesn't - well, I guess she thought it was a temporary thing? Until I got my shit together or whatever? Even after everything I've told her, and - I could just fucking _kill_ her, but - well, anyway. I haven't talked to Nick about it yet, because I thought - well, I know things are different now, but you wanted kids just as much as Nick did. Maybe even more, and I just thought…"

It takes a long second for Liz to understand it, for the haze to clear enough that the words can make their way through.

Oh, she thinks. _Oh._

"She turns one in a couple months," Chessy says. "I haven't - Rebecca sends pictures, but I haven't looked at them. I can send them to you, though, if you want. She's a very quiet baby, Becca says. Nothing like Hallie. Nick says she about blew out one of his eardrums."

"I don't," Liz says, and stops abruptly, pressing two fingers against her lips. Another strange feeling: to be so aware of the exact moment that your entire life changes. To know in your bones that this is the conversation you will remember for the rest of your days. Every second, every breath, every book on the shelf and draft in the air. The fork in the road moment. Don't look back, heart pounding out of your chest, clouds parting for the Heavenly message moment.

"Elizabeth?" Chessy asks, uncertain. "I don't - you don't owe me anything. Or the girls. I'd totally, completely understand if you didn't - "

"Yes," Liz says, the truest word she's spoken in over a year. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes," she says again, and digs frantically for pen and paper. "Give me - numbers, phone numbers. Yours, and Rebecca's. And addresses, I'll need those. I'm going to - I'll book a flight, I'll come. I'll - my father will want to come too, I'll have to call him - we'll come, Chessy. We'll come and talk about it in person."

"Okay," Chessy says, sounding relieved. "Okay, yeah, come. We'll talk."

Liz pulls a ballpoint from the top drawer, a nice one that she'd given her father a while back, for some occasion or another. They'll need - things. Toys, clothes. A nursery. She'll call Martin, he practically raised his little brother, he'll know. And Mother - she'd bought some things, toys and clothes and things like that, packed it all up in storage somewhere, not long before she died. She wouldn't get to meet her grandchildren, she said, so the least Liz could do is let her spoil them from beyond the grave.

Her head is spinning. Annie, she thinks, my God. The name feels like a prayer, a revelation, a life she'd thought lost to her forever: Annie, Annie, Annie.

"I'm sorry to just drop this on you like this," Chessy says. "I just - you know. It's a weird situation. I didn't know how to...not make it weird."

"I'm okay with weird," Liz says. Annie, Annie, Annie, she's still thinking. Her pulse settles down into a normal rhythm, beating in time to the syllables. "I'm...I'm glad you did. Thank you, Chessy. I don't - know quite what to say. Just...my God. _Thank you._ "

"Don't thank me," Chessy orders. "Just...make something of it. You know?"

"Yes," Liz says. "I can do that."

 

 

 

 

In her darker moments, Liz doesn't think she'll ever love anyone again. She certainly won't love anyone the way she loved Nick: naively, wholeheartedly, blindly. But passionately, too, and beautifully. It takes faith to jump from a ledge, they way they had. Liz can't regret it, even though the fall almost killed her.

On their wedding night, on the ship, they'd stayed awake long enough to see the sunrise. Nick had had some romantic ideas about drinking champagne from a picnic blanket on a secluded balcony or something, but it'd turned out to be a rather quick one, and they'd wasted most of it running around the decks, trying to find a good lookout spot. In the end, they were too exhausted and giddy to do anything romantic anyway, and they'd gone back to their cabin and slept all day, wrapped up in the thin little blanket, keeping each other warm.

Everything had felt so possible, so immediate and real. The world was at their feet, the entire sky at their backs. They could go anywhere, do anything, be everything they wanted to be. They could have it all, if they could just work up the courage to reach out and take it.

It hurt so much because it was so wonderful, and that's the truth. If it ended because it was wonderful, too - well, Liz can understand that. It's only fair, after all.

In her brighter moments, she likes to think that she can keep her heart open for something new, one day. She touches her daughter's face and thinks of all the people she'll love in her life, the heartbreaks and triumphs, friends and lovers and children and whatever else Annie, her beautiful, elegant little Annie, will choose to tie herself to - Liz hopes she'll throw herself into it the way she and Nick did. She _hopes_ Annie will get hurt, because in some ways that's the only way you grow - the only thing in life that pushes you forward. It means you give a shit, that you tried, that you invested in something bigger than yourself. It's important, even if it falls apart. She hopes Annie leads a life full of passion and pain and adventure, that she wrings everything out of the world that it can possibly give her, even the stuff that's difficult. Especially that stuff, possibly.

She hopes Nick and Hallie are happy. She hopes, someday -

Maybe. In her brighter moments.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose this is what you would call a "canon reinterpretation," but since you mentioned it in your letter, I thought a lot about the technicalities of the Parker/James family situation, and I wanted to sort of...present a somewhat plausible scenario where the girls would be split up the way they were? I mean, still not 100% plausible, but, you know. Whatever. I hope it worked for you. 
> 
> Happy holidays, and I hope you liked it, Kindness. :)


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